stood at the bottom of the hill, staring up at Angels Flight, the famouslittle funicular railway in the Bunker Hill section of Los Angeles thatbrought people from Hill Street up to Olive. I desperately wanted toride those rails up to the top. But now the two twin orange-and-black
cars were permanently moored in the middle, suspended in midair, ghostsfrom another time.
Back in the day, the Hill was home to the swells. When they moved west,the desperate moved in. John Fante rented a room on the Hill, wrote Ask theDust and Dreams from Bunker Hill there. By the time Raymond Chandlerwrote about it, he was calling it old and shabby town. If Chandler thoughtthe streets were mean back then, he should see them now.
It finally rained in Los Angeles. It rained on Angels Flight. Seems like itrained a lot more when I was a kid. Sharp needles of clear water dancingon my skin. Washing it clean. Cleansing the air.
Somebody stole something from me. Something I didn’t know if I’d everget back.
I was playing hooky from work on a Friday. Just needed an extra day off,lazing about, streaming Chinatown. It was just about the end, my favoritepart. The doorbell rang. Damn. Somebody always wanted something. If the
telemarketers didn’t get you the door-to-door salesmen would. I opened thedoor.
“Kevin Birch?” He had a packagein his hand. Long, skinny white box.Looked like flowers. Who would besending me flowers? I was looking atthe package, not his face.
“Yes.”He dropped the flowers. The box
split open, the flowers bleeding ontothe front porch. A glint of shiningmetal flared in the sunlight. Nothingcompared to the flare when he pulledthe trigger.
“Oh shit . . .” I hit the ground. Hedidn’t stick around to see if he’d donethe job successfully. I tried toimpress his face, his clothes, on mymind, but all I could see were thosedamned flowers. My eyes faded shut.
“Who’re you?” a uniformed cop with attitude asked the black man, as he walkedup to the crime-scene tape choking off the perimeter of our property on CarrollAvenue. The cop moved to block, gave him the once-over. The twice-over.
“Howard Hamm.” Howard reached for a sleek, streamlined, sterling-silverbusiness-card holder inside his Armani coat. The cop’s hand instinctivelylanded on the butt of his holstered pistol. He couldn’t take his eyes offHoward. Howard stood six feet tall. Dressed like a model out of Ebony or GQ.Clothes make the man, he always said. His razor-thin Cab Calloway mous-tache just added to the effect. He thought the twenty-first century needed alittle classing up.
“Well, Howard Hamm, this is a crime scene.”“I’m a friend of the victim. I’m also a licensed private investigator.” He gin-
gerly handed a business card to the cop.“Or maybe the perp returning to the scene of the crime.”It looked like it was about to get ugly.“Howard,” my wife, Nicole, called from the front porch, interrupting things
just in time. She ran up to him. “It’s okay,” she said to the cop. “I called him.He’s a friend of the family.” The cop reluctantly let him slip under the yellowtape.
“Nicole?”“It’s awful, Howard. Someone shot Kevin.” Nicole wasn’t an emotionally
demonstrative person, but she actually had a tear in her eye.“Why? What happened?”“I don’t know.”“They have any suspects yet?”Nicole shook her head. The tear rolled down her cheek. “My nosy neighbor
Sally called on my cell. She found him. I couldn’t believe it—still can’t.”
Paul D. Marks has written more thanthirty published short stories, in avariety of genres, several of themaward winners. His most recent shortfiction, “Deserted Cities of the Heart,”appears in the anthology St. LouisNoir (Akashic Books), released inAugust of this year. A former screen-writer, he is also the author of theShamus Award winning novel WhiteHeat. His most recent novel, Vortex,was described by the Midwest BookReview as “gripping and well-written”and “nearly impossible to put down.”
“Where’s Kev now?” Howard said, handing her a sparkling white linenhandkerchief for the tear.
“They wouldn’t let me see him.”Howard and I were best friends, an odd couple. We’d met at USC, though we
were Bruins at heart. The only two dormies more interested in movies thanvideo games and Trojan football. It made us fast friends, even though we werefrom different worlds, different sides of the tracks, if you will. That only madeus closer. We had a curiosity about each other, each other’s backgrounds, cul-tures. Nothing weird, just curiosity. I grew up in Los Feliz. He in South Cen-tral. Same city, different universes.
“If you want me working officially you have to hire me, so I have standingwith the cops.”
“Of course, Howard. I knew I could count on you. To the cops it’s justanother shooting. Another statistic. But you’re his friend. How much?”
“A dollar. Just to make it legal. Check, not cash.”
That’s Howard, a buck to make it legal. He didn’t want the money, he’d do itout of friendship. He’d find the SOB who shot me and figure out why. He wasa damn good P.I. He had the background for it: cop, D.A. investigator. Didsome time in the service. He wouldn’t talk much about that. I figured it wasTop Secret and all that.
He stood with Nicole, shielding her from the inevitable reporters andstringers who sit around all day listening to the police band, waiting for an “ifit bleeds it leads” story they can jump on. A uniformed cop stood with them,making sure they didn’t concoct some kind of story, as if they’d need one. As ifeither of them had anything to do with this.
Howard’s eyes scanned the knots of people gathering on their front stoopsand behind the crime-scene tape. Neighbors, delivery people, gawkers. EvenCharles Powell, one of my coworkers. What was he doing there?
Nicole walked Howard toward our house, my beautiful Queen Anne Victo-rian. They walked up the front steps to the porch, dodging the blood and bodyoutline. We were only the second owners since the house was moved fromBunker Hill. This house was my—our—baby.
Criminalists, cops, and all the usual suspects were all over everything—fouling my beautiful house with fingerprint powder and other tools of thetrade. My skin crawled.
“Kevin would go insane if he saw what they’re doing to the house,” Howardsaid. That lightened the moment for Nicole. Brought a slight smile to her face.
Detectives Sandy Baker and Erin Bowen finally showed up. Took charge.Bowen’s pantsuit and flat shoes gave her a utilitarian look, though not unat-tractive. The searching eyes said cop. Baker didn’t seem to care much aboutclothes either. Looked like he bought his suit from one of those three-for-the-price-of-one places down on Los Angeles Street.
Howard and Nicole were ushered into the study to the left of the foyer. Hesat in a Victorian parlor chair, she on the fainting couch. It had taken foreverto find just the right couch for that room. Baker and Bowen entered. Bakergrabbed a delicate needlepoint chair, dragging it across the parquet floor. Notjust any parquet floor, but the original floor from when the house was built inthe 1890s. The sound of it made me squirm the way chalk on a blackboard
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does. Baker leaned the chair back on its hind legs, the top rail digging into thewainscoting, the rear legs into the floor. They creaked. I wanted to go afterhim. Howard cringed. Nicole just looked numb.
After some basic preliminary questions, they left Howard in the room with auni, took Nicole across the hall to the parlor. Yes, we call the living room theparlor.
Howard traced his finger along the gash Baker’s chair had made in thewainscoting. Shook his head. He paced the room under the watchful eyes ofthe cop stationed at the door. He examined the antique books and old-fashioned reproduction William Morris wallpaper, but I was sure in his mindhe was figuring what his first move would be.
Bowen returned. Told—ordered—Howard to sit back in the parlor chair. Shesat opposite him in the chair Baker had used, but didn’t lean it into the wall.She hit him with harder questions, as if he was a suspect. It was clear hedidn’t know anything.
“I’m as curious as you,” he said.“I hope you’re more curious than that.” She winked. He smiled back. She left
him alone again.Electric orange sun streaked in through the window, making a parallelo-
gram of light on the parquet floor. The sky frosted silver at the edge of theclouds, and the sun sank into the ocean somewhere off to the west. Streetlamps came on, shedding golden light on the street. Houses lit up, inside andout. It was a postcard-beautiful night—the kind of night that made me fall inlove with Carroll Avenue. A trip to the past and an oasis of calm in the heartof L.A. A safe oasis, until today.
Nicole came into the study.“How’d it go?” Howard asked.“They were fine. Didn’t shine a light in my face or anything.” She twirled
her wedding ring. “They always suspect the spouse.”“Ask you anything unusual?”“Just where I was. Did we have any marital strife, that’s what they said,
‘marital strife.’ But no, nothing out of the ordinary.”“Well, they’ll be back at you till they fully clear you.”“I’m not concerned. I didn’t do anything and I was at work when it
happened.”The thin blue line of cops, criminalists, and other functionaries eventually
departed, leaving Nicole and Howard and a polluted trail of chemical-sprayresidue, fingerprint powder, and the other detritus of a crime-scene investiga-tion, not to mention a Rorschach blot of dried blood fanning out from the dooron the front porch. He ran his finger over splotches of black fingerprint pow-der on the inside banister.
Nicole offered Howard a cup of tea in the kitchen. He sat on a stool by thecounter. Most people wanted new, streamlined kitchens, stainless steel andwood du jour. Our kitchen retained its Victorian flavor with white cabinets,porcelain sinks, and a reproduction stove that looked old, but ran new.
“Kevin’s right, such a beautiful house,” Howard said. “They have to wreckeverything. They know the guy didn’t get beyond the front door. I know theyhave to dig out the bullets, but why spray everything up?”
“They’re just doing their jobs.”
91GHOSTS OF BUNKER HILL: Paul D. Marks
He looked around the house, the ornately carved doorframe and strategi-cally placed antique knickknacks. “As many times as I’ve been here, I neverreally took a good look at the house, but while you were in with the detec-tives—I thought it was old, just old. I stopped looking after that. But it reallyis something. I think I’m seeing it through Kev’s eyes for the first time.”
“It’s nice. I like modern better, though, like you. But Kevin loves it here. Ithink if he could have lived in the nineteen forties he would have been happy,”she said. “He always wished he did.”
“There are two kinds of people, those who escape to the past and those whowant to escape from it,” Howard said. “Either way, they always think there’ssomething better than where they are right now. But the past always looksbetter in hindsight, kind of like coffee, the aroma always promises more thanthe taste delivers.”
She set her coffee cup down, her eyes roaming the room. “I always felt sec-ond fiddle to this house.”
Howard smiled. “You’re jealous of the house?”“It’s worse than a mistress. Takes more time and more money. Money we
could have used to travel or invest, but I guess now’s not the time to be worry-ing about that.”
“I guess not. How you holding up?”“Well, I’ve had better days,” Nicole said in that ironic, understated way that
helped me fall in love with her. I remember the day I met her. Howard and Iwere at a mixer and he dared me to ask her out. I watched the two of them inthe kitchen now, thought about what a nice couple they made. If I hadn’t mar-ried her, I wonder if she would have ended up with Howard? I felt a twinge ofjealousy.
“Yeah, I bet.” He put his arm on her shoulder. She fell into him, soft sobslanding tears on his Zegna shirt. She went to sit, he pulled the chair out forher.
“It’s funny. You’re kind of old-fashioned, chivalrous, but also very modern.Kevin dresses modern, but lives in some fantasy Los Angeles of the past.That’s why we live down here, you know.”
“I know.”Howard slipped a little digital voice recorder from his pocket. Flashed it at
Nicole so she knew she was being recorded.He said, “I guess I’ll start with the standard question, did Kev have any
enemies?”“You knew him as well as I did, maybe better in some ways.” She toyed with
her hair. “But no, I don’t think so.”He stopped, gazed up the stairs, as if he’d seen something. Someone. Shook
his head and it was gone.“What is it, Howard? Do you see something?”“I see a lot of things—things I never noticed before. Feel them too.”“Feel what?”“Ghosts. Ghosts of the past here. This house has history.”
Nicole says I live in the past. Not even the real past, but a romantic past LosAngeles, made up of the likes of Raymond Chandler, John Fante, and JamesM. Cain. If only I could get some help from them, Chandler and Marlowe or
92 ELLERY QUEEN
Fante and Bandini. I guess you can’t only live in the past. Wish I could have,though.
Howard and Nicole wanted to escape the past; I wanted to escape into it. Forme, Nicole moved to our classic, refurbished Victorian on Carroll and I’ll loveher always for that. In the nineteen sixties someone had the brilliant idea totear down the old Victorians on Bunker Hill, many of which had become SROsand flophouses, and build a sparkling new downtown of gleaming high-rises,but it won’t be long till they’re shabby town too—high-rise shabby town. Luck-ily, several of the grand old dames were saved and moved to Carroll Avenue afew miles away, including ours.
Every time I walked those creaky wooden floors, I felt the presence of thepast. The people who’d lived there. Not ghosts, but history, something LosAngeles often doesn’t appreciate. Carroll Avenue was close to downtown, whereI worked. But the whole short street looked like something out of early nineteenhundrds L.A. I loved everything about it.
Rain-cleansed blue skies pushed the bright, cheery SoCal sun through thekitchen window, where it landed in a hard wedge of light on the island, splin-tering off Nicole’s first coffee of the day. The cheery sunlight and Nicole’smood were at odds. I knew her well enough to know her mood would win.
Nicole thumbed through the mail—there wasn’t much else to do. Facedrawn tight—because of me, I guess. She reached for the phone.
“Howard, it’s Nicole. Something’s come up.”Howard jumped into his Mustang GT convertible for the trip from his glis-
tening Bunker Hill apartment tower to slip back in time to our retro streetthat, at least on the surface, had an air of gentility and decorum. Before hewas even inside the house, Nicole handed him an envelope. The returnaddress read: VINE. Howard pulled out the enclosed letter. “Shit!”
“It never even occurred to me to tell them about Chance. He had severalmore years in jail,” Nicole said.
“The letter’s postmarked six weeks ago.”“I know. But it just got here today. You know how the post office is.”Howard headed to the door, his eyes drifting toward the study. Several
empty moving boxes were thrown into the corner of the room.
My wandering tour of the City of Angels—and devils—found me standing atthe bottom of the Spring Street steps of City Hall, gazing up at the granite art-deco facade. More substantial than the movie sets of Hollywood not all that faraway. Like so much of L.A., City Hall was the star of more movies than justabout any other building on the planet. Hell, star of more movies than manymovie stars, everything from the Daily Planet building in the old SupermanTV series to playing itself in L.A. Confidential. Angels Flight and Bunker Hillstarred in their share of movies too, like the noirs Criss Cross and Kiss MeDeadly. And like everyone in L.A., I wanted to be the star of my own movie.And now I was a star, of a mystery. Howard was filling in for Marlowe and Iwas my own MacGuffin.
I barely knew how I got here, but somehow I’d made my way down SunsetBoulevard, past Chinatown, where we know things are best left alone. I couldsee Philip Marlowe taking the City Hall steps two at a time in Trouble Is My
93GHOSTS OF BUNKER HILL: Paul D. Marks
Business. Lighting a cigarette. The acrid smoke tinged the air. He stood next tome. I shook my head to clear it. He was still there, maybe. I sure as hell felt hispresence. I lit a cigarette of my own as a cold wind blew up out of nowhere. I’mnot much of a smoker, but what could it hurt?
Gazing up at City Hall, as if it were some kind of monumental temple to theCity of Angels, I wondered if it could help me figure out who shot me. Therewas always something mystical about the old parts of downtown L.A. for me,the romance of Fante and Chandler, even if it had changed so much since theirtime. Maybe I’d read too many crime novels and now crime came home to me.
City Hall was no help. I didn’t have any better idea about who shot me thandetectives Baker and Bowen. I’m not saying I was a perfect angel—hell no. ButI didn’t think I’d pissed anyone off enough to put a bullet in me. Anyone butBryan Chance, that is.
Howard sat on the Bunker Hill steps, which meandered up or down the hill,depending on your point of view, across from L.A.’s Central Library. He staredat the library’s art-deco architecture, contrasting it with the tall, conspicuoussteel-and-glass towers that dwarfed it, making it look like a relic from anothertime.
I could see him sitting there, thinking, trying to put it all together, but therewere still too many pieces missing. The one new element was that BryanChance was out on early parole and he had a beef with me. An unmarked copcar pulled to the curb, lights flashing. Traffic angrily rolled around it. The dri-ver got out, walked to Howard.
“You look glum,” Bowen said.“Y’know, I never cared about ‘old’ Los Angeles. And I never believed in
ghosts, but I feel them here. Kevin told me about what happened on BunkerHill. How they tore it down for redevelopment. But if you sit here, looking atthe old Central Library across the street and what’s left of old L.A., you canfeel it. Inside you.”
“You sure you’re all right?”“They say all those houses on Carroll are haunted,” he said. “Especially the
ones that were moved from Bunker Hill, like Kev’s. I never got why he dugthat place. But I see it now. It has history. Not only his and Nicole’s, but his-tory. A living, breathing history of some long-gone L.A., only it isn’t gone, notreally.” Howard changed subjects. “Thanks for meeting me on a Saturday,Detective Bowen.”
“Crime never sleeps.” She offered him a Lifesaver.“I’ll have to use that for the title of my autobiography someday,” he laughed.
“So, tell me, is Nicole a suspect? We’re old friends, you know. Kevin too.”“You know the drill, all spouses are suspects till cleared.”“She clear?”“Not yet. Looks like she will be, though. Has a pretty good alibi and we can’t
find a motive.”“She called me to the house this morning. Showed me this.” He handed
Detective Bowen the letter Nicole had given him from VINE, the CaliforniaDepartment of Corrections Victim Notification Service. The letter stated thatBryan Chance was due to be released on parole two weeks ago.
“She just got the letter in today’s mail? So Chance’s out two full weeks and
94 ELLERY QUEEN
now Birch is dead. Typical. Government red tape.”“Here’s the story.” Howard continued staring at the library, couldn’t take his
eyes off of it. “Kevin testified against Bryan Chance in his trial for aggravatedassault. He ended up going away for seven years, largely based on Kevin’s testimony.”
“So the trial was seven years ago?”“More like three years ago. Guess he got out early for good behavior,” he
said. “And he’s been out two weeks. Kevin gets shot and the letter comes a daylate.”
Of course, I hadn’t known that Bryan Chance was out on parole. Just likeHoward didn’t know that the Bunker Hill steps were relatively new, built inthe nineteen nineties, and not some old L.A. landmark. But they’ll have a spe-cial memory for some kid twenty years from now when she remembers her popbuying them hot dogs from a street vendor and eating them on the steps.
I didn’t get a good look at the guy who shot me. But I wondered where BryanChance was when the bullet hit the bone. Was he dropping a box of flowers onmy front porch? Where was he now?
I wandered back toward Bunker Hill, not fearing the drifters and bangers.Found myself in the Grand Central Market, where Fante’s alter ego Bandinigoes to bump into girls, accidentally on purpose. The market is more upscaletoday, but there’s still plenty of flirting to be had. And it’s right across from thenew and improved Angels Flight, moved a block away from the original siteduring all the redevelopment shuffling. The original Angels Flight ran fordecades. The new one for only five years before an accident forced it to be shutdown. Yup, new and improved.
I loved the smells of Grand Central: spicy Mexican foods, fruits, coffee, andkombucha. And business. Everybody hustling. I made my way through thegiant cavern, thinking about my situation. Seemed like the case would wrapup pretty soon, open and shut. Bryan Chance was out of prison. I had helpedput him there. I had a bullet hole or two in me. Howard would figure it out.One thing leads to another—and Bryan Chance goes back to jail.
Chance’s parole officer wasn’t happy about having to look up his address onhis day off—Bowen persuaded him. Chance lived in the Adams-Normandiearea of L.A., not one of the city’s choice neighborhoods. Another place whereold Victorians used to dominate. Some still lived there. USC student housing.Or, in this case, parolee housing. Cheap. And no questions asked.
They cruised south on Vermont in her unmarked.“I better call for backup,” she said.“What’s wrong with me? I ain’t chopped liver.”“You’re not a cop either.”“Used to be. Marine too. I’m comin’ in.”“Against my better judgment.”They pulled up in front of a beat-up, beat-down Craftsman house on Twentieth
Street. Bowen knocked.A Hispanic woman answered the door. “Yes?”Bowen flashed ID on her. “We’re looking for Bryan Chance?”“Bryan Chance? Nobody here with that name.”
95GHOSTS OF BUNKER HILL: Paul D. Marks
The woman let them look around. There were no signs of a man living onthe premises.
“He gave a false address to his P.O.,” Bowen said, as they drove off. She wason her cell to the P.O. before they hit the first stop sign.
“When we find him, I wish we could bust the door in like in the old days,”she said.
“I thought women cops were supposed to be sensitive.”“Yeah, well, sometimes you just wanna bust heads.”Bowen couldn’t reach Chance’s P.O. She looked up his known associates on
the car’s computer. They checked with two of them. They didn’t even knowChance was out of jail, or so they said.
They swung by Nicole’s and my house. Twilight cast its threatening shadowover the street. Darkness swept the sky, dissolving from light azure to darkindigo. Triple-globed street lamps shimmered on the retro street.
Bowen and Howard tried to get Nicole to think of someone besides Chancewho might have it in for me. Nicole thought Chance was the most likely sus-pect. But also maybe Powell, the coworker I beat out for a promotion, and aguy named Reeves who’d cut me off on the road. Short list.
Howard’s eyes wandered over our house again. Those eyes saw everything.What was he looking for? What was he seeing?
“Kevin always said he could feel the ghosts of Raymond Chandler and JohnFante here. Especially when the jasmine or honeysuckle was in bloom,” Nicolesaid, tamping her emotions down. “I didn’t even know who either of themwere when I met him.”
“Yeah, I like to hang with Easy Rawlins myself.”“Easy who?” both Nicole and Bowen chimed.“Never mind.”
Still hoping for inspiration, I parked myself on a bench in Pershing Square,just a short jog from Bunker Hill. Hoping to figure out who shot me. I lit a cigarette right where Bandini did in Ask the Dust. Smoke swirled from the cig-arette like a snake enthralled by the tones of a snake charmer’s pungi.
A cool breeze came up. It wasn’t a cold wind, but it made my whole bodyshiver anyway. Bandini sat on the bench next to me, smoking, just like in thebook. My head felt light. I knew Bandini wasn’t there, like I’d known Marlowewasn’t there at City Hall. Still, they seemed real enough. Maybe it was just thecigarette smoke making me lightheaded. Like I said, I’m not much of a smoker.
Bandini had said there were no tall buildings in the Square. He should see ittoday. Steel and glass spikes sprout from every available space. And whennothing’s available, the wrecking ball makes a new empty lot. Much of the parkgreens have been cemented over, with little pinpricks of green here and there,like a garnish on the side of your plate.
I felt Bandini at my side as I stared across at the Biltmore Hotel. No, I’m notcrazy. I’m not saying I saw a ghost. Just a feeling. Then, something flitted by onthe edge of my peripheral vision. Across the street in the Biltmore: JFK sippingchampagne cocktails at his inauguration party. Swells drinking bathtub gin inthe Gold Room, a sort of speakeasy for the upper crust during Prohibition, hid-den in the depths of the Biltmore. Oscar ceremonies and celebs. Mae West and
96 ELLERY QUEEN
Carmen Miranda partying. Ghosts of the past. Now I wasn’t sure what wasreal and what wasn’t.
And Elizabeth Short, the Black Dahlia, wandering the halls aimlessly. It’sthe last place she was seen alive. Maybe the last place for me too.
While waiting to get a line on Chance, Howard shot the Mustang west onSunset. Even Marlowe did time on Sunset. I wonder if Howard felt Marlowe’spresence over his shoulder. He found Charles Powell watering his emerald-green lawn in the middle of the drought. Powell didn’t look happy to see himget out of the slick Mustang in his fancy suit.
Howard flashed his ID. Went into his spiel.“Yeah, he got the promotion,” Powell said. “I deserved it. Sure as hell better than
that poseur, Birch. I was pissed. But not pissed enough to land myself in jail.”“When was the last time you saw Kevin?”“Thursday afternoon, at work.”“And Mrs. Birch?”Powell was a good-looking guy. Not as good looking as Tyrone Power, but
better looking than Bogie. Of course, Bogie had played both Marlowe andSpade, so that gave him extra points. I could see what Howard was getting at.
“Whatever you’re thinking never happened. Now get out.”His next stop was Jason Reeves, the guy who’d cut me off on the freeway. When
I honked at him, he’d gone ballistic on me. Followed me for miles. I thought hewas going to kill me then and there. But maybe for him revenge was a dish bet-ter served cold. I’d gotten his license, just in case. Nicole had given it to Howard.
Reeves made Howard look small. That was like saying Shaquille O’Nealmade Charles Barkley look small. Howard stood his ground, even as Reevesleaned into him.
“Yeah, I’m known for my road rage,” Reeves said.“You seem proud of it.”“Been to anger management three times.”“Working well.”“Maybe you better leave before it stops working again.”
I rode Angels Flight, back and forth. If it went in a circle instead of up anddown my head would be spinning. It was sort of spinning anyway. Who wouldwant to do this to me? Chance was the most likely. But I’d also pissed off Powelland Reeves. And people had been known to off people for a lot less than “steal-ing” their promotion or getting in a road-rage incident. Maybe it was someone Ididn’t even know I’d pissed off.
Howard stopped by our house Sunday afternoon to fill Nicole in on hisprogress or lack of. He parked, walked up the walkway to the house, past ForSale and Open House Today signs stabbed into the lawn. He stopped for amoment, gazed at the house. At the latticework and the fish-scale shinglesthat I’d so painstakingly restored. The colored glass in the windows. Thehouse, my art. My masterpiece. Every inch lovingly renovated.
The bloodstain, body outline, and fingerprint powder on the front porch,already scrubbed and gone. Just the echo of a little dark spot to say I had
97GHOSTS OF BUNKER HILL: Paul D. Marks
fallen there. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t even see it. Howard stepped war-ily over it.
A well-dressed woman in her thirties came up the walk. She smiled at Howard.“Here for the open house? I was just about to take down the sign, but if—”
“Not a buyer, just a friend of the family.”“Oh.” The woman sounded disappointed. “Mrs. Birch isn’t home today. We
prefer showing houses with the owner out.”“Too bad she has to sell.”“Well, you know she can’t really stay after what happened.”“I’ll take a card if you have one.” They exchanged cards.“It’s a great neighborhood,” she said. “Very historic.”
Bowen and Baker had checked with the other witnesses and even the jurymembers at Chance’s trial. None dead. None wounded. None threatened. Onlyme. Lucky me.
“Seems that since no one else has been threatened or hurt, someone was outspecifically for Kevin,” Bowen said.
Howard had done his own digging Monday morning and found a possiblecrib for Chance. They drove over to a dilapidated Victorian in the Adams dis-trict that would clean up real nice with a little TLC. Found Chance and hishomies sitting on the porch, a Colt 45 in his hand, the kind you drink, not thekind you shoot. Malt liquor. But it was still a parole violation.
“Shit,” one of Chance’s buds said, and slammed over the porch railing.Chance didn’t run. He poured the rest of his bottle out over the railing intothe dirt on the side of the house. Nobody would notice it there, what with allthe crap littering the little side run.
“Ever notice they all have that look?” Howard said. “The sharp eyes,unshaven, but not Hollywood-cool unshaven. Greasy hair. Tats.”
“Well, not all. Some perps wear suits and ties.”They headed up the overgrown grass toward the porch.“I can see you’re cops. Gonna bust me for drinking?”“Where were you Friday?” Bowen flashed her badge.“Friday? You expect me to remember that?”“It was three days ago and that’s not a very good alibi.”“I was here, all day.”“Can you prove it?”“I’m not famous, you know. Don’t have no paparazzi Nazis following me
around all day. What’s this all about?”“I’ll ask the questions,” Bowen said.“And what are you guys? White lady and black dude cops. The Affirmative-
Action Duo? Superheroes?”“Your mouth is gonna get you in trouble, boy,” Howard said. He turned to
Bowen, whispered, “You have to arrest him.”“Got no charges.”“Drinking on parole. At least that can get you a hold on him so he doesn’t
blow town.”Chance jumped the railing into the side run. Ran toward the back of the
house. Bowen and Howard gave chase. Bowen gave it all she had. Howardhesitated a split second before dunking his seven-hundred-dollar John
98 ELLERY QUEEN
Varvatos shoes into the muck on the side of the house. They caught Chanceclimbing the back fence. Yanked him down to the ground. Howard stepped onhis chest, holding him down, sludge from his shoe impregnating Chance’sshirt, not that anyone would notice. Bowen called for backup.
“Not bad for a day’s work,” Bowen said, as the black-and-white with Chancein the back pulled away.
I could see Carroll Avenue standing in the heart of L.A. Victorians up anddown the street. Old-fashioned ambience. Not enough to keep the modern worldfrom intruding, though.
I saw our house. I loved that house. I loved its history. I loved that it hadbeen moved from Bunker Hill and refurbished. I loved living there.
I was born in the City of Angels and I knew that someday I’d probably diehere. There was really no place else to go.
And then it hit me. I hoped it would hit Howard too.
Twilight rang its bell. Sunset laid down a crimson, orange, and blue veil overdowntown. Howard parked in an overpriced lot, walked toward the BradburyBuilding, lights burning gold from most of the offices inside. From the outsideit’s just another nondescript downtown building. Inside, Howard marveled atthe amazing Italian Renaissance masterpiece. He’d heard of it, but had neverbeen inside its walls of wrought iron, Italian marble, Mexican tile, wood, andglass. Blazing sundown light streaked in through the skylight, bathing theatrium lobby in haunting hues of cream and gold. Howard looked at the cardin his hand. Went up to the third floor in the open-grille elevator. If he lovedold movies as much as I did, he’d know that Blade Runner and D.O.A. werefilmed here. He’d feel their presence.
Some say that Marlowe had an office here in Chandler’s books. Others dis-agree. Either way, he did have an office here in the movie Marlowe, starringJames Garner. That was good enough for me.
Howard entered the office listed on the card. Several desks filled the inside,all topped with computers, incongruous in the 1890s building. Maps of variousL.A. neighborhoods filled the walls, including Carroll Avenue.
“Mr. Hamm,” Amanda Reisner, the blond real-estate agent Howard had metat our house, said. “You’ve changed your mind—the home on Carroll?”
“I’m more into modern myself.”“I’m sure we have something—” But she looked defeated. “Since you’re a
friend of the family, I know you already know about the shooting. It’s going tobe a hard sell with that and I have to disclose it. But you don’t look like some-one who would be bothered by that.”
“I have been seeing things differently lately. If nobody wants the house,maybe Kev would want me to have it. But, um, I’m here about something else.Can you tell me when Nicole put the house on the market?”
“I don’t know if I should.”“I’m sure it’s public record. I’m sure I could—” That’s all the convincing it
took. It didn’t hurt that Howard was damn good-looking.“Our first talks were about six weeks ago,” she said.“When did you finalize the deal? Sign the contract?”“March eighth.”
99GHOSTS OF BUNKER HILL: Paul D. Marks
“So about five weeks ago?”“That’s right.”“Thank you, Ms. Reisner.” He shook her hand.“Amanda, please.”“One more question, Amanda. Did Mr. Birch sign the contract?”“No, I don’t believe he did. He was supposed to but then, then his accident
happened.”“Thank you.”His cell rang.“Bad news,” Bowen said. “Chance is clear. Alibi checks and he’ll probably be
kicked on the parole violation. Jail overcrowding and all that.”“Back to Square One,” Howard said. He called Nicole to tell her the news. Her
phone rang and rang, until the voicemail picked up. He didn’t leave a message.
Howard parked the Mustang a couple doors up from our house and waited. Ateight P.M., Nicole headed down the front steps to our car in the driveway. Hefollowed, driving a block without his headlights, before turning them on. Hefollowed Nicole to the Angels Flight Cafe right next to Angels Flight. Not aplace he’d normally go. Not a place Nicole would normally go either.
The retro cafe filled its walls with pictures of the original Angels Flight, thenew one be damned. Nicole walked to a dark booth in the center of the cafe.Howard discreetly pulled out his cell phone. He eyed Nicole and the good-looking Harry-the-Hipster type she met up with. She was a few years olderthan him, dressed to kill in heels and a simple but very short black dress.
The couple sat at a table about halfway into the cafe. They couldn’t keeptheir eyes, hands, or lips off each other in a huge exhibition of PDA.
Bowen walked in the front door. Nicole looked up. The man with her tore forthe back door, running straight into Howard. Howard grabbed his arm,twisted. There wasn’t much fight in the man. Nicole looked to the rear andthe front. No way out. Howard, Nicole’s boyfriend in tow, and Bowen made apincer movement on Nicole from both sides. No escape.
“Why aren’t you going after Chance?” Nicole shouted.“You just used Chance as a scapegoat. You got the VINE letter and held onto
it, pretending it only came a couple of days ago.” Instead of triumph, Howard’swhole body fell in a wave of disillusion.
“How’d you know?” Nicole’s expression turned to defeat.“You put the house up for sale on your own well before Kevin’s accident,”
Howard said. “Kevin loved that house, he would never have agreed to sell it.That why you had him killed, or this?” Howard glared at Nicole’s boyfriend.
Bowen walked up behind Nicole. “Turn around, please.” Cuffed her, then herboyfriend.
“Who’s this?” Howard said.“Just some boy toy.”“Some boy toy who did your dirty work for you.”Bowen turned Nicole and her boy toy over to uniformed cops, who walked
them out to their black-and-white.“I always hated that albatross of a house,” Nicole said, as one of the cops put
her in the back of the patrol car, her friend in another. “Kevin loved it morethan he loved me.”
100 ELLERY QUEEN
Bowen and Howard walked to the curb in the cool night air. Howard lurchedinto the street, watching the black-and-white roll off. Was that a tear in hiseye? “I can’t believe it was Nicole,” he said. He looked like he was about tolaunch after the car.
A mist filtered around the street lamps. Howard was lost in the haze.
I felt my wandering tour of the City of Angels coming to an end as I hit AngelsFlight one last time. If there was any kind of happy ending it was that Howardbought our house. I knew he’d give it all the TLC I had. Nobody I would ratherhave living there.
Everything morphed into mist and haze. I could hardly see them anymore,any of them. They were fading into the night like the wisp of smoke dancing tothe snake charmer. Could barely hear them now. I heard one last thing Bowensaid, as she tried to pull Howard back onto the sidewalk.
“Forget it, Howard. It’s Bunker Hill.” And then everything went blank. l
